Dear Grandson

Dear Grandson:

You have been a part of something huge. You are only five years of age, and you likely do not get it now. You do what five year-old kids do, you read, run, pretend, build forts, play with your sisters, eat Poppie Snacks with me, sit next to your Mema and watch Paw Patrol, and make pretend things out of your food. 

So, I do not expect you to understand what a big thing you have been a part of. Some day, though, when you're older, I suspect that we'll have a conversation about you, the movement, and your place in it. I look forward to that day. Your one act of speaking up, walking in the crowd, holding up a sign, and yelling to the top of your lungs, those were huge. 

It all started back on Monday, May 25, 2020, when a police officer held down a Black man, George Floyd, by the neck with his knee on him for 9:29 until he died. A courageous young man, an MMA fighter stood there, yelled at the police, bearing witness to the brutality of it all, and a young woman stood there, seventeen years of age, and recorded it all with her phone, bearing witness to the brutality, the murder, that she was watching. Her nine year old niece stood beside her. 

Some people try to make that story complicated. Some try to make George Floyd out to be a villain. I say that's ridiculous. It all started with what ostensibly was a fake $20 bill. Perhaps it was fake, but whether it was or wasn't is beside the point. It did not merit George Floyd dying. He did not have to die.

Since that time, since the courageous young woman posted the video to her Facebook feed, the world has seen the struggle to breathe, crying out that he couldn't breathe, crying out for his mother, all multiple times, with the police officer's knee on his neck, long after there was any threat. He was handcuffed and lying on his stomach on the street. The cop had his knee on his neck for nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds. And then he died. He actually died while the knee was still on his neck. 

The world cried out. The world cried out loudly. 

Protests were held across the country in big cities and little towns. In cities where there was a large population of Black people and in parts of the country where there are no Black people. The protests were largely civil. People wore their masks, protested loudly with words and with signs. Yes, there were some ugly things that happened after dark, but I think those were opportunists, and not true marchers for justice. 

No Justice No Peace; Black Lives Matter; Am I Next; George Floyd's Life Mattered; I Can't Breathe; and all manner of other signs were seen around the country. 

One of those protests took place here in our city. Your mother, father, sisters, and you participated. You held up that "Black Lives Matter" sign and from the look on your face in a photo that I do not have permission to post, you were obviously yelling something. I suspect it was "Black Lives Matter!" I saw that picture of you in the newspaper and I wept. 

Since George Floyd's death there have been multiple protests; a sort of reckoning is going on in America. People are beginning to realize that Black Lives Do Matter because they have never mattered from enslavement, Middle Passage, the plantation days, freedom, Jim Crow, and all the way up to now, Black lives have only mattered when their bodies mattered to us economically. 

One of the people that we have worked closely with is a staffer in Senator Booker's office. He said a while back that there has been nothing like this in the history of the US, that there is a racial reckoning happening. As a result of that reckoning, people that I care about deeply, Black Farmers, have a potential new lease on life with debt relief that is now signed into law and with the hope that The Justice For Black Farmers Act of 2021 brings if and when it is passed. 

On Tuesday of this week we listened with much anxiety to the judge's words. Actually, we had watched much of the trial of the murderer of George Floyd. We were hoping for a conviction, but we have seen many times before when a person guilty of  murdering someone walked free. Your Mema and I were afraid to hope. But then we heard the judge's words, GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY, and we were excited. We pumped the air, your Mema honked her horn as we drove down the highway. We were ecstatic. When we got home, we watched again as the cop who had kept his knee on George Floyd's neck for 9:29 was handcuffed and carried away to prison. We watched as the family and lawyers joyfully spoke. We watched as the protest there in Minneapolis was held peacefully. 

From Mr. Floyd's murder to the guilty verdict of Mr. Floyd's killer, people have lived in anguish. We have protested, written letters, marched, wrote blogs, spoke openly about police brutality, and pointed out the lack of value placed on Black bodies in America. We have lived hopefully for the passage of bills for Black farmers. 

You, my young grandson, were a part of something huge. You walked. You protested. You carried a "Black Lives Matter" sign. You yelled at the top of your lungs.  Yes, you were a part of something huge. 

Someday we will talk. We will make sense of it all. 

Until then, I'll just be your Poppie who loves you. We will build forts, watch Breath of the Wild or Mario videos, eat Poppie snacks, dig in the dirt and build imaginary things, and all manner of other things. 

Someday we will talk. 

Yes, someday we we will talk. You'll know that you were a part of something huge. 

And you can continue to be a part of something huge. 

Yes, we will talk. 

Prophets Come Wearing T-Shirts and Masks

Dear Lord:

I have a lot to learn. 

I have a lot to discern. 

I have many a thought to share. 

I have many a burden to bear.

So, please hear my yearnings. 

Please listen to my longings. 

Please consider my mental wanderings. 

Please find me under your wing pondering.

So, please if you will. 

Please comfort and my heart to still. 

Please guide me in the better way. 

Please lead me into the light of day.  

That I your face may see. 

That you may offer grace to me. 

That we may behold the lamb of God. 

While upon this land we trod.

Did the prophets receive pushback from their prophetic utterings? Is it true that shalom existed in the garden and that we messed it up? Is it true that we yearn for shalom and that it won’t be delivered until your face we see?

Is it true that prayer is a glance toward heaven? A yearning of the heart? A moment of joy in the midst of trials and tribulation?

Are there prophets upon this land? Do they come wearing masks and t-shirts that say, “Black Lives Matter,” “No Justice No Peace,” “Act Justly Love Mercy Walk Humbly?” Do they come chanting, marching, protesting? Are there people on the sides of the streets hurling curses upon them with ugly words and taunts of injury or ill will?

I think so.

Give me courage to speak the truth even when it is not well received. Give me wisdom and understanding to grasp how best to live and speak and love and hope and pray and wonder and wander and ponder and pray and pray and pray.

Amen

Mr. Burger, Relentless, Informed, Working for Justice #2

The second time that I met up with Donald Wayne Burger was in early

November, 2007. He and others had organized a protest near Frankfort, Kentucky at a USDA regional meeting of sorts. There were several of us, Harry Young, for whom we were protesting, whose land had been stolen from him; my wife, Charla; Monica Davis, free lance writer; and Melissa Seaver, farmer from Indiana. There is a broader set of reflections of that event on this site, Let Justice Roll. It is called "Not an Ordinary Day."  The team had been mistreated for several days as the powers that be told us first that we could protest in one location and then several other options were posted, all of which were farther and farther from people. These places were chronicled also in Let Justice Roll.   

Burger and his team persisted.  We persisted such that we got ourselves into the meetings.  First, there were informative meetings inside the big tent and then there was lunch. Burger was still there, filming the proceedings. I can see him now.  During the lunch window, as we stood in line with the farmers, something happened, but I do not recall. Whatever happened was such that Mr. Burger, Mr. Young, Monica, and Melissa were ordered to leave. They did not recognize Charla and me. We lingered and chatted. I recall asking a farmer or two how they were treated by the USDA, how things were working for them. 

After lunch, we made our way out to the place of protest, at the end of the entrance to the property.  So, there we stood in the bitter cold, until the event inside was over and done with.  We were not a large crowd, but we were obviously there for some purpose with signs and all, in a very visible place. 

We stood there with our signs with information about how Harry Young had been mistreated by the USDA. All of us were there in solidarity for this gentleman who had his land taken away despite being paid up, with documents to prove it, because somebody wanted his land and the rich mineral deposits beneath it. After the protesting was over, we gathered at a restaurant in town, and for the next two or three hours rehearsed the events of the day and the plight of Harry Young.  

That event taught me several things about Mr. Burger.  He was relentless, unafraid of starting a fuss, was not intimated by the powers that be, and made his plans accordingly.  He had a wealth of knowledge about how the USDA and DOJ worked.  He has an incredible ability to retain information. He knew and could recite information about Mr. Young and other Black farmers and how their treatment was illegal and unethical. I also learned that he was willing to go to any lengths to be in a place where he could participate. I never knew of him flying to a place, but rather that he always drove.  For sure he drove to Kentucky and to East Texas, the third of my most memorable occasions with him.